'Puma three, message received. Where are you now? Over,' the voice at the other end said.
'In pursuit of a motorbike. We have reason to believe the rider is responsible for the injuries to the officer. We're heading out of the underground car park at Euston and-'
He grunted as the car cannoned off a wall before spinning back on to the road.
'Fuck's sake, Phil,' Garside grunted, glaring at the driver.
'Do you want to drive?' PC Phillip Brenner said, eyes fixed on the speeding bike ahead of him.
'Heading up into Hampstead Road again,' said Garside into the radio. 'Request assistance. Over.'
The Astra reached the top of the ramp and sped between two cars, clipping the front of a Nissan, shattering one headlamp.
Neville looked over his shoulder and saw the pursuing police car, its lights spinning wildly on its roof, the siren wailing.
The ex-para gunned the throttle and took the bike into a tight left turn into Euston Road.
The Harley narrowly avoided a Rover heading in the opposite direction, the tip of one handlebar scraping the paintwork of the vehicle and almost causing Neville to overbalance but he kept control of the bike and roared on.
The police car followed.
More traffic lights ahead.
The lights were flickering from amber to red.
Neville shot through, the needle on the speedo nudging sixty.
The Astra followed.
Another police car turned out of Eversholt Road, its sirens also blaring and, for fleeting seconds, Neville could see the nervous faces of the two men inside.
The ex-para smiled inside his helmet and sent the bike roaring almost diagonally across the road.
It struck the kerb, skidded, then the wheels gripped and he was riding hell for leather along the pavement, pedestrians scattering before him, some shouting, some screaming, some gesturing angrily.
He turned the bike back on to the road and swept past St Pancras.
The two police cars followed, the first of them closing the distance between car and bike. Neville saw this in his wing mirror and slid one hand inside his jacket, pulling the. 459 free.
He looked quickly behind him then fired off four rounds, the pistol bucking uncontrollably in his hand.
Two shots ricocheted off the road, the third took off the police car's left wing mirror and the fourth struck the radiator grille.
Neville continued to pump the trigger.
His next two shots both struck the windscreen, which promptly spider-webbed.
The leading police car went out of control, skidded across the road and slammed head-on into a Range Rover, the sickening crash audible even over the sound of the Harley's engine.
Neville smiled, aware that the Astra was still in pursuit.
Come on, you fuckers. Your turn.
He guided the bike into Gray's Inn Road.
The police car followed.
12.06 A.M.
Doyle brought the Datsun to a halt and jumped out, heading towards the side entrance of Euston. Towards the two burly uniformed men who blocked the way.
'I've got to get inside,' Doyle said, reaching inside his jacket.
'No chance,' said the taller of the two constables. Doyle produced a small leather wallet and flipped it open.
'Counter Terrorist Unit,' he said sharply, pushing past the policeman, sprinting up the short ramp towards the side door.
There was only one word to describe what he saw inside the station itself.
Pandemonium.
'Jesus Christ,' Doyle murmured under his breath, walking slowly past the left luggage area.
There were still a couple of hundred people on the concourse, all hurrying towards the exits. Mingled with them were uniformed staff from the station itself, workers from the shops and cafes. A seething mass of humanity all attempting to get out of the building as quickly as possible.
Doyle saw men and women running from the platforms to join the throng.
The announcement to evacuate the station was still booming from the loudspeakers.
Doyle saw policemen moving about amidst the confusion. The bright yellow helmet of a fireman bobbed into view. Then another.
He heard dogs barking.
Sniffer dogs, he assumed.
The announcement from the Tannoy blurted on, voices were raised, there were shouts, the sound of thousands of feet on the concourse. The dogs.
Bedlam.
More people were pouring up from the subway, scrambling awkwardly up escalators which hadn't been switched off and were still programmed to move downwards.
It looked like some bizarre fairground ride, but the faces on it showed anything but joy.
Doyle walked briskly across the concourse, glancing around.
Hoping Neville's left the bomb in plain sight?
A uniformed BR man ran past him.
Where the fuck is it?
There were so many places to hide a device.
Doyle heard footsteps close behind him and turned to see two uniformed men running in his direction.
He flipped open his wallet and showed his ID to the policemen, who nodded briskly and moved off in another direction.
As Doyle passed the counter of the Casey Jones stall he saw a cup of hot liquid standing on the counter, abandoned. Still steaming.
Lying close by the counter was a discarded rucksack.
Suitcases had been left on the concourse.
He even noticed a small plastic football, possibly dropped by a child. It was rolling across the concourse slowly, undisturbed by the many feet scuttling past it.
Doyle stood still, the noise echoing in his ears. The shouts, the Tannoy announcement, the dogs.
He looked down at his watch.
Twenty-five minutes to detonation.
'Shit,' he murmured under his breath.
'Doyle!'
The sound of his own name made him turn and he saw Calloway heading towards him, accompanied by two men dressed in black uniforms.
Bomb squad, Doyle thought.
'It's Neville,' the DI said. 'One of our mobile units has him in sight now. We've got a description of what he's wearing, we've even got the bike's reg number.'
'Bike?' Doyle said, looking puzzled.
'He's riding a motorbike. He shot a policeman here, two cars chased him, they're still on his tail now.'
'Where is he?' Doyle demanded.
